


Snowprints on the Heart

by 1derspark



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cabins, Dogs, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mountains, Nicky is a mountain man, Smut, and Joe is ALL about that, the Alps!, the Hallmark Holiday movie we all want for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1derspark/pseuds/1derspark
Summary: “A week?” Joe said, bewildered, he pushed himself up in bed. He couldn’t be stuck up here in the mountains for a week with some stranger, in his very tiny cabin with his very tiny and only bed.Nicky shrugged, and tucked some wild strands of hair behind his ear. “You will be lucky if it is not more. What did you think would happen? It is almost November, of course it is snowing.”Joe glared at him. He didn’t plan for this. He wasn’t some mountain man, who knew the patterns of these finicky storms in the late autumn Alps. Oh, Andy was going tokillhim. But, on the bright side, Joe was going to get that vacation he asked for. Only now it came with a cramped, yet begrudgingly cozy cottage, and a scruffy-looking Italian named Nicolo.(Or Joe’s unfortunate road trip through the Alps, featuring a rugged mountain-man Nicky.)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 33
Kudos: 264
Collections: Secret Santa Fics





	Snowprints on the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Lonely_Wolf_Needs_A_Star](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lonely_Wolf_Needs_A_Star/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Eve to everyone who celebrates! I hope you are all doing well <3
> 
> This piece is for the lovely, Lila for discord Secret Santa. I hope you enjoy the snow and the fluff, it feels very much in season to me, and I had a blast writing this. Much love to you dear <3
> 
> A HUGEEE thank you to Kellin who is the best beta in the whole world, I tell her every time but I always mean it. And thanks to Gati and Viola who helped me out with this story's brainstorming, while I was panicking knee-deep in Wikipedia documents about tunnels through the Alps. <3
> 
> Enjoy! And happy holidays :)

Joe would not admit that he was wrong. He refused. But pulling out of the parking lot, he had to concede that he couldn’t see shit through the windshield. The snow had come to the Alps early, and was intent on ruining his vacation, maybe even killing him with this full-blown whiteout.

Andy, whether he liked it or not, was right about this trip. She had wisdom beyond her years, and a spot on intuition to rival a bloodhound, but damn it, Joe didn’t think she needed more praise for anything. 

Yes, she’d wanted him to fly into Genoa for their yearly two-week vacation getaway, but it was _Quynh_ who suggested he take some time for himself. 

“You look like shit,” she’d said earlier that October curled up in his favorite and _only_ office chair at the university back in Paris, sipping from a coffee mug.

“You try grading three classes worth of Introduction to Art History papers,” he’d grumbled, sliding down onto the floor with a groan, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He pointed an accusatory finger her way. “Then you can yell at me.”

“Uh, why not have Nile grade them?” she’d said rolling over in the chair to his side.   
  
“She’s presenting her thesis soon,” Joe had mumbled. “She has enough on her plate already.”

Nile worked harder for him than most TA’s ever did for a professor. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have the time to be grading. Most nights, when Andy or Quynh didn’t drag him out somewhere, he went home to order takeout and mark papers or make lesson plans. Sketch maybe. 

(It’s been so long since he’s had any real kind of inspiration. Half the things he started he smudged up and erased. His easel was a splatter of colors he couldn’t make sense of.)

“Okay,” Quynh had said. “But Andy’s going to kill you if you’re swamped enough to cancel on Genoa.”

“I’m not!” Joe had protested, but it didn’t sound convincing and he knew it. Quynh knew it. She sipped from her cup and stared him down until he caved.

Joe had sighed. “I don’t know Quynh. There’s so much I have to do. Really it would cause me _less_ stress if I stayed back and worked the two weeks. I paid the deposit already I know, but it’s fine—”

“Nope!” Quynh had jumped up from the chair, some of the coffee spilling over the rim onto the floor. Joe had eyed it with sorrow. “I’m not dealing with a cranky Andy when you cancel. You’re _coming._ You need it.”

She’d strolled over to the door, already on her way out, so sure that she’d convince him.

“In fact take _another_ few days. Make the trip down to Genoa with the car. The mountain passes are still open. Go see some trees. Some snow. Go fucking wild. Maybe it’ll spark that artist spirit.”

Stuck in this blizzard, Joe thought he might not live long enough to draw something. Not only could he barely see through the blizzard blowing past his windshield, but the car was having trouble. It took every ounce of his concentration not to skid.

Joe drove slowly, and followed the signs pointing south. There were no hotels out here to hunker down in. He supposed that was his own fault. He’d chosen the Mont-Cenis pass for its isolation, nothing but soaring mountain rock, cool fields of grass, and random crops of pine trees for miles. All of it centered around the Mont-Cenis lake that France constructed in the sixties for a dam, colored a stark turquoise, even with the snow. 

It was picturesque. It was exactly what he thought he would need. 

But all Joe had to show for it were a few smudged sketches, some very cold, cramped fingers, and a treacherous road downwards to where he _hoped_ he’d reach Italy.

He was about halfway around the lake, he thought. He could barely see shit, but the lake proved to be besting the blizzard. It was the only thing indicating any sense of direction, besides the few lengths or so in front of his car illuminated by weak yellow headlights.

And just when Joe thought the wind was dying down enough for him to speed up a little, and haul ass down the mountain to Moncenisio, the first small-town Italy had to offer out of the pass, the car slid over a patch of black ice and went sliding. 

Joe had no control over the car, he slammed on the brakes but it didn’t matter. He was skidding and the car flew right off the road and into a ditch where it slammed into a snowdrift, jerking Joe forward.

The world was spinning, or he was. He felt over his forehead and came back with his fingers spotted in blood. He must have hit the steering wheel. There was a long gash just above his eyebrow and fuck, his neck didn’t feel too great either. 

“Fuck,” Joe groaned. 

All in all, it seemed that more damage had been done to himself than the car, the airbags didn’t even go off, though Joe wouldn’t be surprised if this crazy weather had something to do with that.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed at the car door. It took a few hard shoves for him to get it open, but Joe tumbled out into the snow, leaning heavily on the passenger window for support. 

The front bumper of the car was bent to all hell and he thought there might be smoke coming out from under the hood but with the snow he couldn’t say for sure. 

The weather was getting worse, the wind a constant deafening whistle in his ear. Visibility started and ended at an arm’s length in front of his face. The car wasn’t working, he had no source for heat. He had his jacket and maybe a blanket or two in the back. And his phone didn’t exactly have the best service at this altitude.

No one knew where he was out here. 

Joe rubbed his hands over his eyes, trying not to cry, but fuck it he was _scared._ But he couldn’t panic. He had to preserve his energy. Joe swallowed down his panic and climbed back into the car. He crawled over into the backseat and opened his suitcase. He stuffed his clothes into the narrow spaces by the car doors to insulate, and layered on whatever other clothes were left. Luckily, he had some band-aids and napkins stuffed into the glove compartment on the passenger seat side. He dabbed whatever blood he could away from his head and bandaged himself up. 

He sent two texts to Andy and Quynh, even if they didn’t go through, and curled up under the ratty blanket he kept in the trunk of the car.

He watched the wind roll over the valley, shaking the trees, shaking the car, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

~

There was a part of Joe that didn’t expect to wake up at all.

But he woke up warm. In a bed. With his head wound dressed and a gray and brown dog sitting curled up at his feet. 

Before he could even sit up, kick the dog off, grab for the nearest weapon to bludgeon the shit out of whoever _took_ him from his car, the door to the cabin creaked open, flooding the cabin with sunlight, and in stepped a man covered from the waist down in fluffy white snow.

“Oh hello,” the man said from behind the mask over his mouth. He pulled the black cloth down and took off his knitted hat. Long, shiny honey-brown hair fell to his shoulders. He kicked his boots on the doormat to get rid of the snow and wiped the rest off his pants with his gloves. 

“I’m Nicolo, or Nicky.”

“Yusuf…” Joe replied back in kind. “Or Joe. Whichever.”

Nicky nodded. “The snow has stopped,” he continued. He was speaking in English. Without the balaclava muffling his voice Joe could pick up on the Italian accent he had. It was unfairly attractive to hear, especially with the beard he was sporting. “Just so you know. I found you in your car. You had mild hypothermia.”

Joe was finding it _really_ hard to think. Hypothermia. Car. Italian guy, with big blue-green eyes and rather endearing looking nose. There were worse people to be abducted by, he guessed. 

“Why were you wandering outside in a blizzard?” Joe grumbled.

Nicky nodded at the dog at Joe’s feet, who had risen up his head and was panting and wagging his tail in Joe’s general direction. 

“Francesco,” he said. “He heard you crash. He wouldn’t stop barking until I went out to look for you. You are lucky he did. I am not sure if you would have survived.”

Nicky walked in and sat down on one of the two chairs at the small dining table. Joe’s bag was on top, with his laptop and he hoped, his phone. The cabin was small enough that there was only a good length of distance between them. In fact there was little in the cabin at all but for the roaring fire in the chimney, the table and chairs, an old but plush looking carpet, the small bed on which Joe rested, what looked like a wood-burning stove, and a dog bed with a couple of toys. 

“Am I in Italy?” Joe asked.

Nicky smiled. It was small, but even that little bit of humor lit up his whole face. “Barely. Moncenisio is a good thirty-minute walk down the mountain. But it will be a week before I can get you there.”

“A week?” Joe said, bewildered, he pushed himself up in bed. He couldn’t be stuck up here in the mountains for a week with some stranger, in his very tiny cabin with his very tiny and _only_ bed. 

Nicky shrugged, and tucked some wild strands of hair behind his ear. “You will be lucky if it is not more. What did you think would happen? It is almost November, of course it is snowing.”

Joe glared at him. He didn’t plan for this. He wasn’t some mountain man, who knew the patterns of these finicky storms in the late autumn Alps. Oh, Andy was going to _kill_ him. But, on the bright side, Joe was going to get that vacation he asked for. Only now it came with a cramped, yet begrudgingly cozy cottage, and a scruffy-looking Italian named Nicolo. 

“I’m supposed to be in Genoa soon,” Joe said, falling into the pillows with a huff. Francesco whined and climbed up the blankets to curl into the crook of Joe’s arm, a good heavy warmth. 

Nicky blinked, and his lips pursed as if he were displeased. “That’s a three-hour drive at least.”

Joe petted down the dog’s back. “Are you familiar with the drive?”

“I am from Genoa,” Nicky said stiffly, “but it has been a while since I have been back there.”

Joe hummed. Clearly, he’d touched a nerve and as interesting as Nicky was, it would be better not to anger the man who was quite literally the only source of warmth in the raging winter mountain range.

Joe coughed, and Nicky shot up from his seat immediately, going over to the stove where he had a pot boiling. After some fiddling around in the cabinet for a bowl, Nicky ladled in a good heaping of fragrant stew.

“Here,” Nicky said, handing over the bowl to him, and shooed Francesco off with a gentle hand when the dog came in close for a sniff. “The meat is hare. You should eat. Get your strength back up.”

Joe’s never had hare before, but he was willing to try. He dug into the meal with gusto, which not only smelled wonderful, but tasted far better than mountain hare soup had any right to be. 

“This is wonderful,” Joe told Nicky, stomach full. “Not only are you a great cook, but you saved my life. Thank you, Nicolo.”

Nicky blushed, looking sheepish. “It was what any man would do.” Which was _wrong_ but Joe wasn’t about to call him out on that, not when that gorgeous flush had made its way up to the pale shells of his ears. 

“My home is small, I am sorry, but the bed is yours for as long as you need it,” Nicky said. “In a couple days the snow will melt enough that we can walk to Moncenisio. There you can make a call or anything else you need. There’s no service out here.”

“You are too kind Nicolo,” Joe said.

Nicky waved him off, hiding behind the curtain of his hair. Francesco had made himself a home at his master’s feet, and was content to serve as a distraction as Nicolo focused on petting him. 

“It is nothing, no problem at all,” Nicky settled with. 

~

Joe slept what remained of the day away. With a hearty bowl of stew in his belly, an overwhelming sense of fatigue, and Francesco, who was happy to jump on the bed and play cuddle bug with him, Joe was out like a light.

He slept through the night, better than he had in months if he was at all honest with himself, and woke up alone. 

Nicky and Francesco were nowhere to be seen, but there was a folded set of clothes on the table and when Joe stood he spotted a covered pan on the stove that revealed some scrambled eggs, toast, and potatoes. 

He ate with gusto, Nicky was a damn good cook. Joe suspected Nicky had gotten most of the ingredients from Moncenisio, though why he’d waste them on Joe was beyond him. Joe would thank him again when he got the chance. Maybe he’d get Nicky to blush a second time. 

After putting on the clothes, which were just this side of small in the shoulders, Joe put on his boots and trudged outside. 

Any doubts he might have had about shortening his stay faded away with the absolutely blanketed landscape outside the cabin. 

There was a foot of snow everywhere, at least. Nicky’s house was squeezed into a small pine grove lower on the slope of the mountain. Up beyond the ridge, Joe could see what he thought might be the road down to Moncenisio. The tops of the metal guardrails were sticking up out of the snow. 

He didn’t have to wait long for Nicky to show up. There was a loud bark, and Francesco shot out of the treeline, hopping through the snow up to the small porch where he whined and jumped up at Joe’s legs.

“ _Francesco!”_ Nicky called, whistling. The dog plopped himself happily at Joe’s feet, in no hurry to run back to his master.

Joe chuckled, patting Francesco on the head, grinning as Nicky walked up, looking disgruntled.

Nicky was carrying a good haul of firewood. He dropped it down in the corner of the porch where the previous pile had been running low.

“It seems he has a new favorite,” Nicky said nodding at Francesco who cocked his head and panted happily.

“He’s a good dog,” Joe said. “I imagine he’s good company out here in the wilderness.”

Nicky smiled, though it was more subdued than Joe would’ve liked. “He is. But I do okay by myself. I don’t need anyone else up here.”

He walked back into the house, and Joe followed. Nicky shook the snow off from his boots, then pulled off his knitted cap. His hair fell damp against his neck. Joe wanted to reach out and brush his fingers through it.

“Thank you for the breakfast,” Joe said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It would be strange to save you from freezing to death only to starve you after Yusuf,” Nicky said, smirking. “No thanks are needed. I am happy to cook for you.”

After a beat, Nicky said, “I miss it.”

“Cooking?”

Nicky nodded. “It’s hard to cook anything extravagant on a small wood-burning stove. But I used to cook more, for my sister, back in Genoa.” He went and tossed a log into the fireplace, then sat down at the dining table. “I am very much an Italian stereotype.”

Joe couldn’t resist. “Oh? You’re gorgeous and you cook well?” 

Nicky blinked, startled. And his cheeks pinked beautifully. He ducked his head down and Joe caught sight of a mole low on his cheek. Joe imagined himself kissing it.

“I can vouch for only the second,” Nicky mumbled. “But… thank you Yusuf.”

“You are feeling better though, yes?” Nicky asked. 

Joe flashed his best charming smile Nicky’s way before sitting down at the table. Francesco padded over to his feet where he curled up over them, sighing. “Much so. The sleep was refreshing. I needed a break, maybe this is a sign.”

“The blizzard was a sign?” Nicky asked.

“Maybe. Maybe it was you. This cabin. It has been too long since I’ve just _existed._ Grading papers every week and holed up in my apartment with takeout on the weekends is not exactly _living_.”

“You are not a person who goes out then?” Nicky asked.

“More like I haven’t found the time. I don’t _like_ sitting in my apartment by myself watching tv during my free time. I would much rather be drawing or painting. It has just become… habit.” 

Joe remembered his early days as a professor, when he’d drag Quynh and Andy and Booker out to the clubs, high off the newness of it all and a steady stream of income. He’d painted more in those days. He could sit in the museums and sketch for _hours._ He flirted without shame, taking his conquests home to draw them there in bed. He felt young with energy, but old enough to be accomplished.

But school went on and classes became a cycle of habit and research had to be funded, and students like Nile were few and few between. The paintings in his apartment were months old, every new one he’d tried got a few brushstrokes in before the inspiration left him.

He told Nicky this and found no judgment in his face.

Joe’s fingers twitched for a pad and pencil with a fervor that’s evaded him for _months._

“This happens to all of us. Life becomes a rhythm and you forget to enjoy it,” Nicky said. He looked about his cabin, self-conscious. “Sadly, I don’t have much here to entertain you.”

“Sit,” Joe said, gesturing to the table. “You are entertaining enough.”

~

Joe spent the next two days with Nicolo di Genova and his dog in his cabin, and he became so desperate for paper that he drew on the backs of Nicky’s food wrappers.

The man in question found Joe with his hand in the trash, plucking out a piece of parchment paper that Joe was pretty sure once held a block of butter or marzipan. 

Luckily, there was a nubbed down pencil in the bag Nicky snatched with his laptop, and while it did more smudging than sketching, he was grateful. He’d gotten a good profile down of Nicky’s face, that wondrous nose, when he was caught.

Nicky, the angel, only smirked, chuckling behind his hand before going into his jacket and pulling out a _sketchbook_ and pen that looked awfully like the ones Joe kept in the glove compartment of his car.

“How did you get this?” Joe asked.

“I went back to your car this morning,” Nicky said, shuffling over to the fireplace to poke at the logs with the iron. “You are not strong enough to walk so far in the snow, and I suspected that you might have some paper in there.”

“I can go back and get something else?” he continued, worriedly. As if trudging out into the snow to get Joe a sketchbook he didn’t really _need,_ when he was completely and entirely willing to make do with the man’s deli paper scraps, wasn’t the second kindest thing anybody had ever done for Joe. And the first was saving Joe’s ass from the snowstorm in the first place. 

“No, no,” Joe said. “I would much rather have you here as a subject.”

“Subject?”

“To draw,” Joe clarified. “It is you after all, that I’ve been so eager to draw.”

“Oh,” Nicky said quietly. He’d gone stiff as if he didn’t know how to breathe or stand now that he knew for sure that Joe was sneaking glances at him. 

Joe, to spare the poor man, and himself from further embarrassment asked, “If you’re alright with it of course. You could sit on the bed.”

Nicky nodded, trying and failing to keep the smile off his face, he went to shoo Francisco off the covers but Joe stopped him. The dog yipped happily and crawled into his master’s lap, bringing a quietly contented look upon Nicky’s face, which Joe hurried to capture.

~

For all that Joe was occupying his time with resting from near-death, which included a frankly ridiculous amount of hours dedicated to sketching a surprisingly acquiescent Nicolo, he could see how living in such isolation might make a man go mad.

He was hindered by his fatigue, which didn’t help. It was hard for him to trudge through any of the snow farther than the clearing, and most of the entertainment to be found up here in the mountains was, well, the mountains.

Nicky took Francesco out on a long walk every morning, as long as the snow wasn’t too high for the dog to handle. Joe made sure to wake himself up early enough to greet them on their return.

Francesco darted right to him once they were out of the treeline, tail wagging, happy as anything, and his master usually seemed pretty thrilled to see Joe too.

Nicky was a quiet person. He’d have to be, living where he did with snowstorms and mountain crags blocking his path down to the nearest settlement. Sure, it wasn’t like Nicky was some hermit psychopath with no social skills, but he was a man who could exist without all the noise of people around every corner.

Joe found himself more than a bit twitchy in the silence at first, but he was adaptable and soon found himself feeling more tranquil about it all.

Joe drew in the sketchbook Nicky got for him, ate Nicky’s food with gusto, read his way through the man’s small collection of books, and spoke when he felt so inclined.

Nicky usually answered in kind, their conversations were long and full. Dragged on for hours, picking up in hot spots and stopping when necessary. 

Nicky, more than anything, was happy to let Joe ramble on about whatever he wanted to. Most people got that flighty look in their eyes when Joe got deep into his rantings about medieval Islamic art or obscure renaissance painters but Nicky seemed genuinely happy to listen, and interjected when he had a question or two.

But Joe spoke, and spoke, and spoke, and he found that he knew very little about this man who he quite literally owed his life to.

Nicky was Italian, he was from Genoa, Joe assumed he was Catholic, if the annotated bible on his bookshelf had anything to say about that, he had a love for small hearty mountain dogs, and he could cook. 

Really, it was none of Joe’s business, in a few days Nicky would take him down to Moncenisio and he would get his shit together, driving off into the sunset to leave the mystery man behind. 

All would be forgotten and this would be a funny story Joe told his friends after a few beers about the handsome mountain man who saved his life.

But the thing was, Joe _knew_ he wouldn’t forget Nicolo so easily. The number of sketches he had of the man in his sketchbook could attest to that.

The way Joe felt after coaxing a smile from those pretty pink lips wasn’t the normal flitter-flutter of anticipation one got from a date or hook-up. This felt _different._

Maybe he’d suffered brain damage, because Joe could not be this attached so soon, it was ridiculous.

But no, Nicky was helping him, he’d given Joe his bed after all. He still slept on a pile of blankets on the _floor_ and refused to give in otherwise, despite the fact that Joe had protested multiple times.

How did such a generous, quietly-kind, lovely picture of a man end up here? Alone, with no one to share his radiance with but some snow, some trees, and a cute little dog.

Joe wasn’t one to prod where he wasn’t wanted, but looking at the expression on Nicky’s face when Joe talked about Andy and Quynh and Booker and Nile, all the shenanigans they got up to, the adventures they’d had even after Joe’d gotten stuck in his rut, Joe knew that this was something worth pursuing.

~

Joe planted his ass in the chair by the fire at bedtime and refused to move to the bed until Nicky got in first.

“I feel _fine,_ Nicolo. I feel great in fact. There is no reason why we cannot both share the bed.”

The disgruntled look on Nicky’s face, Joe hoped, wasn’t because Nicky didn’t even _want_ to sleep in the same bed as him. Just to sleep! Joe wasn’t planning anything more daring than that.

(Though he would be lying if he said he wouldn’t mind having Nicolo in that way. Kissing that lovely mouth, a hand in that long, luscious hair, pulling his head back to nip at the softness of his throat right underneath that rough brush of beard.)

He wouldn’t push Nicky to do anything, but it was cold, and the man shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor in a house he owned as he had been for as long as Joe's been there.

It was late, the sun set early in the winter months, and rose even earlier so Nicky went to bed sooner than Joe ever would at home. At about eight or nine he was ready to sleep, but Joe didn’t mind. Every day was a hard day’s work up here, and Nicky was clearly exhausted.

“Are you sure?” Nicky asked quietly.

“Absolutely. I don’t bite.” He hesitated then, “Not on the first date, at least.”

“This is a rather poor excuse for a date,” Nicky grumbled, sliding under the covers. He didn’t seem put off by Joe’s flirting, and Joe had been laying it on thick pretty much since he got here, and recovered from nearly freezing to death. He was either humoring Joe, or maybe, just maybe, he was also interested.

“Usually I have more to work with,” Joe said, finally moving over to the bed to shuffle in beside Nicky. Francesco hopped off the end, tottling over to his dog bed.

“I like to think of myself as a romantic,” Joe continued. “When I dated, or well, I _used_ to, I liked to bring gifts and flatter and flirt. I liked to listen to them, and what they had to say. Whatever my date wanted to do, I would try to enjoy it.”

Nicky turned over to rest on his side, so that he and Joe were eye to eye. They were not touching, but it was a close thing, barely an inch or two separated them. With their combined body heat, Joe was bordering on uncomfortably hot with the fire blazing, but he wasn’t complaining at all. He wanted Nicky closer.

“The mark of a good man, as well as a romantic,” Nicky rasped. His head was resting on one half of the pillow. Joe dared to lay his own on the other. 

“It is what anyone would do,” Joe said, he nudged his face downwards in an instinctive draw to Nicky’s face. Their noses brushed. “Should a stirring of love take root.”

Joe could have said more. He could have poured his heart out here, with his forehead flush to Nicky’s, and the heat of the cabin cocooned about them. It was unbearably intimate, it was ridiculous frankly, to feel so much and yearn so deeply. 

Nicky kissed him. He was the one to breach the distance, such a small span of inches yet it felt so wide. Joe felt as if he was doing too much, he’d always been an open book, and he’d rather bottle all of that up than make Nicky uncomfortable, but Nicky was _kissing_ him. Slow and sloppy and sweet, dragging his tongue across Joe’s bottom lip and sighing when Joe gave him entrance.

Joe’s hand traveled up from Nicky’s neck, over his jaw to brush over his beard, angling Nicky’s head back to kiss him better.

He tasted _divine,_ something like salt and the scent of woodsmoke, the crisp call of mountain air. Joe could drown in it. Was drowning.

Nicky had his arms around Joe’s neck, tugging him in close, and knotting his fingers in Joe’s thick, bouncy curls. 

He broke away, gasping, and Joe couldn’t resist planting a series of sucking, smoldering kisses down the line of his throat. 

“You’re beautiful, so beautiful,” Joe said. When he was done leaving a love-bite at the top of Nicky’s collarbone, just under where his shirt covered skin, he came back up to Nicky’s face. Adding a kiss to his birthmark, the tip of that wonderful nose.

Nicky was rubbing a thumb in slow circles at the crest of his cheekbone, red-faced and contemplative.

Nicky leaned up for a soft kiss, a peck. “Imagine my surprise, rescuing some crazy person from their car in a snowstorm and he turns out to be the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.” He shook his head laughing, but it was dry, tinged with self-deprecation. “And you say I am beautiful.”

Joe leaned down and peppered Nicky’s face in more kisses. It was ridiculous, silly, but Nicky’s laughter brightened. He pushed Joe’s face away but Joe got his arms around Nicky’s torso and they rolled over in bed, tumbling, tossing about in a mock-fight.

Eventually, Joe had Nicky pinned. “I would not lie about your beauty. Not to my savior, and not to the man who’s inspired me beyond all others. Just your face, could conjure wonders from me.”

Nicky’s eyes were wet. He hummed, unsure of what to say, or at a loss at how to say it. He pulled Joe in close instead, shuffling until they were laying in a comfortable position for sleep.

Nicky ran his hands down Joe’s back in long, languid strokes. Eventually, Joe fell asleep with Nicky in his bed, holding him close, sweltering from the heat and the fire, but so content he’d dare not disturb.

~

The next day Nicky told him they could head down to Moncenisio. 

Nicky had tried to creep out of bed at dawn without waking Joe, to take out Francesco, but Joe wouldn’t let him sneak away without a kiss at least.

“I have morning breath, Yusuf,” he’d said, voice scratchy from the night, but he’d already been leaning in to chase Joe’s lips. 

“I would gladly suffer it, to stay in bed with you.”

Joe didn’t get the long interrupted morning of leisurely, drugging kisses he’d imagined, it was more like a few minutes of holding a soft sleep-warm Nicolo. Francesco, as sweet of a dog as he was, did scratch and whine at the door for his walk. 

Joe, who felt as light and refreshed as he imagined he’d ever be, decided to make breakfast for both of them after they’d left, something Nicky usually did once he returned.

Nicky was running low on fresher ingredients, but Joe could freshen up some old bread in the pan and cook what he assumed were cuts of venison.

Toast and salted meat sprinkled with some dried spices was hardly a luxurious breakfast but the look on Nicky’s face when he saw it laid out on the dining table more than made up for any insecurities Joe had.

Nicky ate it with an enthusiasm Joe didn’t think the food deserved, and twined their free hands together across the table, refusing to let go until they finished.

“We can go to Moncenisio today,” Nicky said while he was cleaning up. He scrubbed at their plates with a strange intensity, refusing to look up. “The path down is not so deep, and you are well enough to walk, yes?”

He was. Joe had been rested and fed and loved for a week. He should be jumping with joy, being able to go down to the town with _people_. And he had to call Andy, who had spent the last week freaking out no doubt. He needed to recharge his phone and his laptop.

He should be sick of Nicky, he barely knew him. But he _wasn’t._

He didn’t want to leave. But he had to.

“Okay yeah let’s go,” Joe forced himself to say. “I should call my friends. Let them know I’m not dead.”

Nicky’s expression shuttered at that, guilt maybe. Joe cupped his cheeks and brought him in for a kiss, of which Nicky, thankfully, leaned into. 

“It’s okay,” Joe said. “Everything’s okay.” Which was a lie. Joe wasn’t feeling _okay_ at all _._ But he didn’t think Nicky was ready to hear about how he really felt. 

Nicky sighed, an exhale of tension, and squeezed Joe’s hand before putting all their dishes away and packing up for their trip down the mountain.

~

Though Joe was well-rested and mostly recovered from his driving mishap, Joe was glad for the week of recovery the snowstorm provided him with. The walk down the slope to Moncenisio was not an easy one. He was lucky to have Nicky guide the way through the snowdrifts, and the many hidden pitfalls they covered. Nicky was lucky to have Francesco, who darted about in front of them, bursting through white banks as smoothly as a dolphin did through waves, leading them on.

They’d set out pretty early, but it was almost noon by the time Joe could see the tops of Moncenisio’s houses.

As adaptable as the townspeople may have been to the snowstorms and all the strange weather the Alps threw at them, this blizzard had made its mark. Nicky was right to not have made the trip sooner. 

The snow had caused a good deal of damage to the roofs. Walking down from the slopes Joe spotted a handful that had buckled in, from the weight or the wind, but already there were people crouched on the rooftops, working to fix them. 

Moncenisio was a sight to behold, a cluster of houses bunched up with the terrain. They were both out-of-place and perfectly a part of the landscape. Splashes of houses painted a muted blue, a burnt kind of brown, many in a traditional tan stucco. A large stone belltower, that Joe assumed was the church. 

Nicky led Joe to the main road and found themselves immediately accosted by townspeople. They chattered at Nicky in rapid-fire Italian. Joe, who spoke the language conversationally, found it hard to keep up, but there was no mistaking the fondness they had for Nicky. 

As they walked the main, and _only_ road, to a small cafe where Nicky had said there would be wifi and free outlets, Joe picked up on the conversation between Nicky and an older woman.

Nicky’s smile was tight as she spoke, but he was polite and hugged her as she left. 

“She said she had a letter for you?” Joe asked.

“Oh, you understood her?” 

“Well enough,” Joe said. “She said it was from your sister?”

“Yes,” Nicky said, strained. “She writes to me often from Genoa.”

There was obviously tension between the siblings, at least on Nicky’s part. Joe could have surmised some kind of fall-out without hearing about the letter, a contented family man didn’t live by himself isolated in the mountains, far, far away from the city.

“And do you write back?” he asked.

“No,” Nicky said. “I should. Come, now we’re here. Inside you can call your friend. I have to run a few errands. I’ll meet you back here.”

Nicky leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, and left, without a word, without explanation. 

Scowling, Joe went inside.

~

If Quynh was to be believed, Andy had already rounded up a search party, that consisted chiefly of some beefy men from Booker’s favored bar in Genoa, to march up to the Alps to recover Joe’s body.

She’d talked Andy down after their initial call which consisted mostly of her screaming bloody murder his way, a lot of chastisement, and curiosity over Nicky.

“I’m coming to get you tomorrow,” Andy said when Quynh put her on.

“You have to, my car is trashed.” 

“Car’s trashed. Mystery man with a dog. Cabin in the woods. This all sounds very horror-esque to me Joe.”

Joe laughed, a slow happy smile spreading on his face. “I’m not being held hostage. Nicky is… kind. He’s a good man.”

“Uh-huh,” Andy said, she didn’t sound convinced. More like she’s humoring his romantic fancies “Well don’t get swept up in it all Romeo, I’m coming to get _you_ tomorrow. There’s not room in my car for two.”

She was joking, but Joe couldn’t help but think what if there _was._ He’d known Nicky a week, he couldn’t ask the man to come with him. Away from his home, no matter how melancholy Nicky seemed to be in it. 

Joe wasn’t blind, Nicky liked him. A lot. Never in his life had he connected with a person so easily. Joe imagined it was a once in a lifetime thing, fate, if he were to believe in such. 

He and Andy hashed out the details of her arrival before she hung up. Joe bought a pastry for himself as well as two coffees to share with Nicky.

Nicky looked haggard, walking back to the store to meet up with Joe, he had a bag full of groceries, though Joe didn’t see the letters the woman spoke of anywhere. Nicky’s face brightened at the coffee which he took with gusto, tangling their fingers together.

“Everything okay?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Nicky said. “Let’s go home.”

Joe didn’t correct him. It wasn’t his place. And it felt awkwardly right.

~

That night Joe put together his belongings to meet Andy in the morning, Nicky watching as he ate. He’d gotten pasta from the store and the dish he cooked, something simple cooked in garlic, olive oil, pepper, and served with chicken, was as good as the heartier mountain meals he’d been making for them both the past week.

Nicky picked at his meal, it was if there was a cloud hanging over him.

Joe couldn’t take it anymore. He knelt at Nicky’s side and cupped his cheeks, bringing him in for a sweet kiss. 

“What’s wrong Nicolo? Tell me, please. That I may ease your burdens.”

“I would not have you bear them Yusuf,” he whispered. 

“No, tell me. I cannot stand seeing you upset.” 

Nicky sighed, and pulled out the coveted letter from his jacket. He’d just picked it up but the envelope was already wrinkled, creased, like Nicky's been clenching it in his hands, over and over. 

“My sister, she’s had a son it seems.” His voice was carefully blank, but his hands trembled. “She named him after me.”

“Is this not a good thing?” Joe asked carefully.

“I have not seen my sister in three years,” Nicky admitted. “It’s my fault.”

He stood from the chair and walked to the far end of the cabin, where the window was drawn open, the night pouring in. He clenched a hand in his hair.

“My mother is a very… traditional woman. She would not have approved of my proclivities, should I have told her.”

Joe nodded. “You didn’t tell her you liked men?”

Nicky laughed, and it sent a chill running down Joe’s spine. Cold, bitter, resigned. “I could not. She would have thrown me out. I joined the seminary instead.”

 _That_ surprised him. Equating this rough-edged Nicolo with a priest was strange. But Joe understood the path Nicky sought to take. He was a kind man, a gentle one, he would have been a good priest.

“But I was weak. There was a man, a childhood friend, who I was fond of. And he of me. I would see him often, when I was home.”

Joe could tell where this was going. Far too often had he heard stories in this vein, the last thing he wished was for this kind of suffering inflicted on Nicolo. But here it was, plain as day. 

“She caught you,” Joe said, and knew.

“Yes. She’d never raised her voice to me much, as a child. I was good. Quiet. It was strange to hear her scream.”

Joe couldn’t stay sitting. But he didn’t think Nicky wanted to be held either. He moved so that he was leaning on the corner of the window frame, Nicky opposite him, on the other. Nicky was staring outside, tracking the snowdrifts, or lost in a memory he couldn’t forget.

“My sister, she never judged me. But she is younger than me, and back then she was still living in our mother’s house. All she could do was pack me a bag and pay for a bus to sneak me away before my mother came back with the church in tow.”

“I came up here, slept in the church if you can believe it, until my sister could send me some money. I bought the cabin and I haven’t left since,” Nicky said.

“Nicky,” Joe started. He reached out tentatively to lay his hand over Nicky’s forearm, and squeezed when he wasn’t brushed off. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“But it is good, yes? That your sister writes to you?”

“She wants me to come home,” Nicky said, so soft Joe could barely hear him.

Joe had to be careful. Instinctively, he wanted to insist upon the olive branch Nicky’s sister was extending, that in turn Joe could use. After all, what would that mean for _them_ if Nicky left the mountains?

But this also wasn’t about what he wanted. “Do you want to go home?”

“I miss her,” Nicky said, which wasn’t an answer but revealed more than Joe thought. “She’s moved in with her husband. I would not have to see my mother.”

Joe tugged Nicky into a hug, kissed the top of his head. “You don’t have to. She doesn’t deserve to see you.”

“Yusuf,” Nicky breathed. He leaned up to kiss him. “You are… more than I deserve. More than I could ask for.”

Joe grabbed Nicky close, tugging their mouths together. He pushed Nicky down into the bed they’d shared, and stripped him down to bare skin. 

There was more Joe could say, but it was too soon. Far too soon. He’d dare not give these feelings a voice. Not yet, though they had one _night_ left together. He would do his best to say them with his hands instead, his tongue.

With Nicky naked, and what seemed like a feast of pale, freckled, skin to kiss, Joe put his mouth to task. He sucked kisses down Nicky’s chest, sucking harsh bites on his pectorals. Lapping at those soft pink nipples, sucking them into his mouth when Nicky whined, babbling in Italian, his fingers curled in fistfuls of sheets.

Joe’s hands made an anchor of Nicky’s hip bones, they fit into his grip, like fate had carved them to be so.

And with Nicky pinned, Joe nosed his way down the thatch of Nicky’s hair to his cock, hard and jutting up towards his stomach, leaking with pre-come.

He took Nicky down to the root without preamble, leaving Nicky gasping. One hand coming up to Joe’s head to settle him, or pull him closer. 

Joe looked up at Nicky, his mouth full and moaned his encouragement. In response, Nicky tugged Joe down and made small thrusting motions, fucking Joe’s mouth gently.

Nicky tasted like a man, salt and musk, but his sheets smelled of charcoal and the fragrance of lotion. Joe was thrusting down into the sheets, unconsciously, helpless to release pressure on his own cock. 

It didn’t take long, Joe could tell Nicky was getting close. He removed one hand from Nicky’s hip and trailed it down the base of Nicky’s cock, rubbing lightly over his perineum, teasing, to then press just enough over the dry furl of his hole. 

The grating groan that came from Nicky’s mouth was a rhapsody, and Joe sucked all of him down as he came, suckling until he whimpered from oversensitivity. 

“Joe, Joe, Joe” Nicky chanted. “Come _here._ ” 

Joe sprung up to kiss him, and Nicky licked into his mouth eagerly, tasting himself. 

Already Joe had a hand on his own cock, fucking his fist with an embarrassing fervor. He was already so close, with Nicky squirming beneath him, Nicky’s breath warm on his cheeks, his lips, where he left sloppy kisses and whispered filthy things.

“Come for me, please Yusuf, come on me. Ah, fuck, please.”

Joe grunted, pressing his forehead onto Nicky’s shoulder and spilled, long and thick, over Nicky’s stomach. 

He felt weak in the arms, the legs, the heart, but he found enough strength to slither down Nicky’s body to lick up his own come. And it was worth it to see that heated gaze in Nicky’s eyes, feel how his stomach contracted with each lick, breathy whimpers spilling from his mouth, unimpeded. 

When Nicky was clean they settled down, Nicky’s back to Joe’s chest, and Joe lavished Nicky’s shoulders with kisses and whispers of love without the word, praise and wonder. He continued long after Nicky fell into an exhausted sleep, and did not rest until the moon was long past its peak, dawn only hours away.

~

Nicky walked him down to Monciesco and said nothing. 

He’d slipped from bed in the morning without a kiss, without embrace, leaving Joe’s arms to pull on clothes as if it meant nothing. Like his heart wasn’t breaking as Joe’s was.

It was Francesco who finally roused Joe from bed, begging for breakfast. Joe and Nicky didn’t eat themselves, but spared enough time for the dog and they were off, into the snow to meet Andy who said she'd arrive around seven-thirty.

In the morning, with the melting snow, the town was an ethereal sight. There was little activity on the main road, most people were more inclined for a lazy morning in bed. Joe wished more than anything, that he could indulge as they did.

They stopped at the church, where Joe now knew Nicky had taken refuge, where Andy agreed to pick him up.

“Nicky,” Joe breathed out. He sounded weak, his voice cracking. “I don’t know what to say. What you’ve done for me… cannot be repaid.”

Nicky’s eyes were shining. “I ask no payment from you.” He took in a big breath and continued, “you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

They were hugging, Joe didn’t know who initiated it. But it broke him, all that he’d been holding back, came pouring out.

“Nicky, _come with me,_ ” he begged. “Leave this place. Come to Genoa. See your sister.”

Nicky pulled away as if struck. “I can’t. I can’t. Please, Yusuf don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“It doesn’t have to be. You want to go home, you said so yourself. Come home with me, the man who loves you.”

Nicky shook his head, backing away, there was a frantic cornered hope in his eyes, that Joe wanted to calm and nurture, but Nicky wouldn’t let him close. “You don’t—” He squared himself up, those lovely eyes turned to icy steel. “You don’t mean that. This can’t be love.”

“Nicky!” Joe shouted after him, but Nicky had already backed away, Francesco following at a sedate pace, looking back and whining Joe’s way.

By the time Andy pulled up, Joe had lost sight of him.

~

Andy was kind enough not to prod too much outside of the general “are you okay?” and “what do you need?” for the first hour of the car ride.

Joe wasn’t crying, but it was a near thing. He’d leaned his head up against the passenger’s seat window, hoping that the coolness would alleviate the aching in his head, behind his eyes. It didn’t, but it was at least keeping him from bursting out into immediate tears.

The drive to Genoa was about three hours give or take, but Andy pulled off the road once they’d circled around Turin.

She put the car into park and turned to him. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I did,” Joe muttered. “Car crashed. Nicky saved me. It took a week for the snow to melt. And you came to get me.”

“Stop,” Andy snapped, her patience had worn thin. The wounded part of Joe wanted to snap back, she had no right to pry. But Andy was helping, in her own stubborn as an ox way. 

“I’m not going to act like you don’t look like death warmed over. That man did something to you and I have half a mind to turn this car around and shoot him in the foot, I don’t care if he saved you or not.”

“He did save me,” Joe said. “He loves me.”

Andy was quiet for a moment. “Is this some kind of Stockholm Syndrome thing?”

“No!” Joe snapped at her, angry. “Andy, I—” And to his shame, he was crying now, he couldn’t hold it back. “I know how ridiculous it sounds but I fell in love with Nicky, I really did. I mean it. It was like we just _connected._ I have never in my life felt like a person has seen me as much as he does. Never. And I had to leave and he couldn’t come _with_ me.”

Andy wasn’t a romantic. Quynh was the only person on Earth who could tell what she was thinking. Even after all his years of knowing her, Joe had trouble with it. Looking at her now, wiping snot from his nose with his sleeve, he could practically see the gears turning in her head. What to say in this situation? 

If Andy had gotten lost in the mountains and came back broken-hearted over a strange hermit who’d saved him from a snowstorm, fuck he’d have questions too. He’d press.

“Okay,” Andy said. “Tell me about him.”

“What?”

She shrugged. “Tell me about him. If you love him, I want to hear about it.”

“Andy—” Joe struggled to keep his voice even. “I can’t tell you everything. I can’t tell you why he stayed. He’s not a bad person—”

“I believe you.” She sounded as gentle as he’d ever heard her. He didn’t think she was lying. She looked genuinely interested to hear about Nicky. “Tell me what you can. Maybe it will make you feel better. Maybe you’ll get over him once you purge all of this. Maybe you don’t. If not, Booker has a good bar in Genoa. We’ll figure it out.”

Joe was laughing through his tears. He didn’t feel better really, he had a feeling that only one thing could fix that. But Andy’s blunt, rough love was more than needed.

He took a breath, calming himself, and as Andy pulled back onto the road, told her what he could.

~

Joe didn’t get out of bed for two days once they got to Genoa. He didn’t say much to Quynh or Booker beyond a hug and a little explanation. Andy must have told them to bear off on interrogating him. He wasn’t disturbed, and Andy or Quynh left him food, though he barely touched it.

Andy let him wallow, which he appreciated, but he wasn’t surprised when she stormed into his bedroom on the third morning and yanked off his blankets. 

“Come on,” she said firm and unrelenting, “time to get up.”

Joe could ignore her, he could _try,_ but it would be fruitless. When Andy wanted something done, she got it, and she would absolutely drag him out of bed if she needed to. 

Thankfully, Joe didn’t have to do any thinking other than hauling his ass out of bed. Andy had laid out some clothes for him. Jeans and an appropriately warm sweater for a winter-time coastal Genoa. 

Out in their kitchen Quynh and Booker were nursing cups of tea and coffee respectively. Booker smiled at Joe but the look Quynh gave him was long, measuring. She then turned to Andy, and they had a conversation without words, as they often did.

“Well, good luck,” Quynh said, and Joe didn’t know if that was an insult or encouragement. 

“We’re going out,” Andromache clarified, “I have something to show you.”

There was nothing that Andromache could show him that could make him feel better. Genoa was a city ripe with history and art and all kinds of things for him to ogle at. The Joe who’d driven up the Mont-Cenis pass, with his whole trip planned out down to the last art piece he wanted to see, would have loved to pick apart the city.

What he wanted now was to pick apart _Nicky’s_ city.

But, he didn’t protest. Even he would admit that after two days of some rightful wallowing he needed to go outside, if only for the fresh air.

Quynh and Booker waved them off and Andy and him set off. Their apartment was relatively close to the sea. The beaches were emptied for the most part, tourism slowed down in the winter months and it was chilly enough outside to scare most beach-walkers away. 

Andy took him through the coastal neighborhoods, even this morning they were bursting with early-risers beginning their day. Chatter dripped down from the balconies, workers shuffled into their shops ready to open, it smelled heavenly. The sea-salt air, the cool breeze, garlic and sugar and spices from the food shops. 

Joe wondered where if Nicky’s sister was here among these people, this neighborhood. What painful poetry it would be to run into her and not know, he’d want to thank her, to throttle her, to beg her for help.

Stop it. Stop. She wouldn’t help, not even if he could get to her. Only one thing would, and the world made it clear he wasn’t allowed that.

Joe expected Andy to take him to a museum, or a bar, somewhere to drown his sorrows in art or alcohol but he wasn’t expecting her to take him to a hotel, in one of the cheaper neighborhoods.

It was a decent looking place, a little run-down, but family owned with empty flower baskets strung up on all the windows. Joe imagined it looked wonderfully rustic in the spring and summer months. 

Andy opened the door for him but didn’t move to step inside. She held out a keycard instead for him to take.

“Room 109,” she said. “I’ll come pick you up in a few days.”

And before he could question her, or protest whatever hare-brained scheme she’d cocked up Andy walked off the way they came, unbothered as ever.

Joe sighed, rubbed a hand down his face and made his way to room 109.

Maybe she’d gotten him a room to himself, away from everyone to cry or fuck his heartbreak out. The latter would be a very Andy thing to do, but Joe would be surrendering himself to the former.

But when he slipped the keycard in and unlocked the door he didn’t get an empty room but found himself slammed into at the shins, by a dog.

Joe stumbled back, startled, while _Francesco_ whined and wagged at his feet, jumping up on his hind-legs for attention.

And then Nicky stepped into the doorway.

He looked about shitty as Joe felt, but different. He’d shaved for one, that mountain-man beard was gone, and his hair was trimmed a bit, tied up in a knot at the back of his head. But he had circles under his eyes, his skin was paler. Still, he was the most beautiful thing Joe had ever seen.

Nicky whistled, calling Francesco, who departed with a whine only once Joe petted the top of his head.

“What are you doing here?” Joe asked him, breathless.

“It’s my room,” Nicky joked through a watery smile. “For the next few weeks at least.” He took a step forward, reaching out for Joe but thought better of it when Joe leaned back. 

“Would you come in?”

“ _Nicky.”_ Joe’s hands were shaking, all the tears he’d swallowed down this morning in his brave foray out into the city were coming back up, and pooling in his eyes. He felt one trail down his cheek. “I can’t come in if you’re going to leave again. I can’t—I won’t do that to myself, or _you._ Please, whatever kind of trick this is, let it go. I love you too much to let this stretch on—”

Nicky made a choked sound, the beginning of a sob and tugged Joe into his arms. Oh it _hurt,_ it hurt to be here with him. Nicky who smelled of trees and salt still, who was warm and lovely just as he’d been before, but had a scent of the city now with him too, the tang of aftershave, clammy with nerves or relief.

Nicky pulled him into the room for privacy, and they clung to one another in the doorway, crying into each other’s necks. Nicky was petting through Joe’s hair, making shushing noises.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he was saying, repeating it over and over. “I’m so sorry Joe.”

He pulled back, just enough to look Joe in the eye but keep their foreheads brushing. “I was afraid, Joe. And I let it stop me. I'm sorry. The minute after you left, I wanted you back. I wanted you with me always. I still want you with me.”

Joe’s head was spinning. “Nicky you said you wouldn’t leave. You said you couldn’t come with me and now you’re here. I don’t understand.”

“I was a coward,” Nicky said. “I’d spent so long punishing myself, living alone that I thought I deserved it. And I was taking all my grief out on you. It was cruel, I was cruel to the man I love and I’m here to beg for forgiveness.”

Joe laughed, watery, and pushed into Nicky’s touch. It was addictive, just as much as it had been before. There was no way he could turn away now.

“I don’t want you begging Nicolo,” he whispered. “I want you here, with me. Please.”

“I have the room booked for two weeks,” Nicky said. “Until I gather up the courage to see my sister.”

 _Oh._ Joe grabbed Nicky’s hand and brought it up to kiss the knuckles. “Nicky…” He was at a loss for words. “I will help you, yes? Whatever you need I’m here. I forgive you _hayati_.”

Nicky was crying more than he was, turning his cheek onto Joe’s shoulder, and letting it all out. Francesco yipped at their ankles, concerned and energetic.

Joe, with one arm tight around Nicky, bent down to pick the dog up and together they moved to the bed where Joe held Nicky tight while Francesco made himself comfortable, snuggled between them.

There was too much to do. Too much to unpack. Joe was sure Nicky had more to tell him about his sister, his decision. And all the things they had to plan. Joe couldn’t stay in Genoa forever, he’d have to go back to Paris eventually, but did he have to stay? 

All important questions, things for the future that would drive him wild, but he didn’t care. He was heart-heavy in the best way, worn out on love, and he had all he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Come check me out on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/1derspark)!
> 
> As always comments and kudos are appreciated and feed the beast :)


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